but I still wake up, I still see your ghost
by alanabloom
Summary: "I know you aren't there." Will's voice is serrated from days without use. "I know you aren't real." Saying the words out loud does nothing to banish the image of Alana in front of him. There is no encephalitis to blame, now, and Will doesn't know what kind of crazy this is, but he's not sure he really cares. Sanity isn't such a bad sacrifice, if it means he gets to keep her.


_"Are you accusing me of something, Alana?"_

_"No," she struggles to keep her tone even. "I'm just trying to understand the progression of Will's symptoms." Alana pauses, unable to swallow the bitter taste of blame back down her throat. "But I am curious how you justified clearing him for field work, particularly in the face of such lengthy dissociative states."_

_"You and I both know Will wasn't entirely receptive to therapy. He knows all the tricks. I can only assume he was holding back." Hannibal sighs, troubled. "By the time he began admitting to the worsening symptoms, I of course took him for a brain scan. Which, as you know, did not reveal the encephalitis."_

_"And you didn't even consider it?"_

_"Until I saw the clock he drew you following his arrest, no, I did not." He pauses. "A fact which torments me daily. I failed Will."_

_Alana looks away, her own guilt and anger twisting in her chest. She doesn't disagree. She's been visiting Baltimore almost daily for the past week, pressing a reluctant, shamefaced Will to take her through the progression of encephalitis symptoms: every instance of sleepwalking, every hallucination, every period of lost time. And she's made sure he clarifies how much he was sharing in therapy sessions with Hannibal._

_She has always had the utmost professional respect for her mentor, and she doesn't want to question him now. But doubt is scratching at some dark corner of her brain, quiet but insistent, and Alana can't stop asking herself: How? How did he let this happen?_

_Shaking her head slightly, Alana says, "The clock test..."_

_"Was perfectly normal when I performed it on Will," Hannibal finishes smoothly. He pulls it from the thick file in his hand with almost suspicious ease, as though he'd known to have it handy. "As you've seen."_

_"But the date, Hannibal. That was weeks before he was hospitalized after Gideon, before Georgia Madchen was killed." Her eyes flare, mouth set in a thin line. "You were testing him for dementia. You knew something was wrong, and yet he was still working cases?"_

_"That was also right before I sent Will for a brain scan," Hannibal reminds her calmly. "And, forgive me, but Will had already amassed several victims by that point."_

_"Then why didn't you see it sooner?!" she bursts out, the unspoken finally said out loud._

_Hannibal shakes his head, giving Alana a look that borders on pitying. "Perhaps Jack is right," he says quietly. "Perhaps you shouldn't be testifying on Will's behalf."_

_"Excuse me?!"_

_"You're too invested. You're not thinking objectively...it would be a shame, Alana, to ruin your respectable reputation by making emotional decisions."_

_She takes a step back, eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Why are you trying to keep me from helping him?"_

_Hannibal holds up one hand. "My apologies. Please, it was merely a colleague's concern."_

_Alana doesn't waver. Her face is stony as she holds out a hand. "I'll need those files."_

_"Of course."_

_With a terse nod, Alana accepts the proffered files and turns to leave Hannibal's office._

~(W*A)~

**Two weeks later**

"You don't have to do this," his voice is low, solemn. "I can tell him alone."

Beverly flicks her eyes at Jack, briefly. She's on the edge of tears and angry because of it. "No," she grits out tersely. "No, I should be there. She'd...she'd want me to."

Jack nods, accepting this, and after a moment the security doors whir, permitting them entry into the tier of the prison.

It feels like a death march, the long stretch of corridor before they reach Will's cell. He's lying on his bed, listless, but jerks up at their approach. As soon as Will registers their identities, unmistakable disappointment flickers across his features, and somehow Beverly just knows he was hoping for Alana.

Five days. Probably the longest stretch he's gone without her visiting since his arrest. Alana had never been able to allow herself to go that long without checking on him, even without an official reason to be there. So already Will must be wondering.

Will stands up and approaches the bars, frowning slightly, confused by their dual presence. His gaze skims past Jack to land on Beverly, a questioning look on his face even as he says sarcastically, "Are you two hoping for a consult?"

They exchange a glance; they hadn't discussed this part, who will actually say the words, pull the trigger. Getting here was hard enough.

Jack clears his throat. "Will. Something's happened."

On the other side of the bars, Will's body stiffens. Fear hoods his eyes, and the reminder of Alana's unprecedented absence slips fleetingly through his consciousness, chased by the acknowledgment that Jack and Beverly's united front means something serious.

But in the next second, Will shoves these thoughts away, and his whole face hardens, steely denial glinting in his eyes. "No," he responds shortly. "No, I don't want to talk to either of you. Tell Alana to come."

Sighing, Beverly drops her forehead against the bars, eyes on the ground and voice heavy with sorrow. "Will..."

"You can go," he cuts her off sharply, starting to pace toward the back of his cell. "Just tell Alana."

There's a long silence, and then Jack softly says it out loud, a truth Will seems to know in his aching chest and coiled guts, but one his brain won't even consider. "Alana's gone, Will. She's dead."

Will goes very still. Everything grinds to a halt, and for a long, silent moment he isn't thinking or feeling anything. He isn't even breathing.

"I'm so sorry," Beverly says softly, tone stripped with grief.

"It was the Ripper. He started another cycle, I had her consulting. We think she must have found something..." Jack's voice trails off as it become clear the words are simply bouncing off Will, not making an impact.

A dozen painful heartbeats past, and then Will simply says, very quietly, "No."

Jack keeps talking, apologizing, explaining, and Will physically lifts his fists and presses them against his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut, his thoughts unraveling in a panicked, desperate loop: _My name is Will Graham. I am in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and when I open my eyes Beverly and Jack will not be here because this is not real, Alana is not dead she is alive Alana is alive._

Everything goes silent. Will slowly opens his eyes.

Beverly and Jack are staring at him from outside his cell, their faces softened in maddening sympathy.

"No," he spats. "I don't believe you. You're lying." His voice splinters. "She'll come see me. I know she will, she always does."

Beverly turns away, helpless, but Jack continues, his voice as gentle as the harshness of the words allow. "Will, they found her body on an empty farm. We didn't know it was her when we got the call." He slides his gaze at Beverly. "Beverly got to the body first. It happened five days ago, but Chilton recommended we not tell you until - "

"_Shut up_," Will yells, his face contorting into a feral mask of anger, hands clawing spasmodically at his scalp. For just a moment, he looks quite deranged, like he's actually someone who belongs here. "None of that's true. It's not true."

"I'm sorry."

"STOP SAYING YOU'RE SORRY. ALANA ISN'T DEAD."

His voice echoes down the hall, and a guard starts toward them, but Jack holds up a hand to indicate they're fine.

Will's eyes fall on a thin folder under Jack's arm, and his whole body seizes up as some distant, rational part of him registers what it must be. "Show me," he demands, voice dangerously quiet.

Jack follows Will's gaze, lifting the folder into his hand but not relinquishing it. "Will, you may not want to - "

"_SHOW ME_."

There's something so dangerous in Will's voice that Beverly physically shudders; for the first time, she can see how he could be capable of violence.

Extending his arm, Jack offers up the file, indisputable proof.

"_Jack_," Beverly protests, her stomach twisting at the mere thought of the photographs in that file. For most of the past five days she still feels stuck in that moment, can still feel every detail of the split second when she approached the body and realized that, for once, it wasn't just some anonymous stranger.

"He needs to see proof," Jack mutters in explanation as Will snatches the folder from his grasp.

His fingers are trembling when he opens it, and a strangled cry curls out of his throat the second Will's eyes land on the first photograph.

Her eyes closed. Her skin impossibly pale. She's posed, legs and arms extended in an X formation. Like a snow angel. Bruises on her throat. Blood soaking through her clothes.

He flips past the crime scene photos until he gets to ones taken in the lab, before the autopsy, and his hands start to shake so badly the folder drops to the floor of his cell, papers scattering, but not befor the image of Alana's bare chest and torso, with multiple slash wounds sewed shut after the organs were removed, is burned into his eyes.

There's only about two seconds where his head is clear enough to think _Hannibal did this_ but then the thought slips away.

Will can feel himself coming apart at the seams. He's shaking so badly it doesn't seem like he should still be upright. His eyes screw shut, and for an instant grief completely overwhelms him. It's as though he's too raw for this world, like the atmosphere is squeezing him and any second now he'll become nothing but pain, and as a result he will cease to exist. It's too big, too much, and he won't survive it, surely no one could survive it.

He sinks to his knees, jackknifing at the waist and wrapping his arms around his head, and for a moment Will just trembles there, a small tight ball on the floor of his cell, waiting for it to be over.

But then his chest cracks wide open, and a deep, guttural howl, like a wounded animal, lurches out of him. In the next second he's crying, and God, he's never cried like this, wild and awful and messy. He can't stop.

There's nothing for Beverly or Jack to do but silently bear witness.

After nearly three full minutes of listening to Will's wrenching sobs, Beverly presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, pushing back from the bars and muttering, "Fuck, I can't. We should do something."

"We can't help him," Jack counters gravely, running a weary hand over his face. "There's nothing anyone can do to make this easier."

At one point Will braces his hand on the floor of the cell and nearly slips on a piece of paper. He pries open bloodshot, slitted eyes to look down and finds himself once again staring at a photograph of Alana's dead body.

In a frantic motion he crumples it up and hurls it away from him, not even hearing Jack's cry of protest. His skin starts to crawl as Will realizes he's surrounded by evidence of her death, and that's when he starts to scream, over and over, not stopping as he violently rips at the files, driving his fists into the ground.

Jack yells for help, and guards burst into the cell, pinning Will's limbs and lifting him to his feet before jamming a syringe into his arm, mercifully bringing this part to an end.

~(W*A)~

He wakes up in the medical suite, handcuffed to a chair while a monitor beeps along with his vitals. Beverly and Jack are there, waiting, with Chilton and a few guards and nurses hovering in the background.

The first thing he says is, "Is there going to be a funeral?"

Beverly and Jack look at each other, not replying right away. He's so sick of them doing that. Beverly's the one who answers, "It was yesterday. We...drove back last night, from Massachusetts. Most of her brothers still live there."

Will doesn't say anything, hollow eyes staring straight ahead.

"I took the dogs," Beverly says after a moment. "So don't worry about that."

"And, Will, your lawyer's going to...find someone else to testify for you at the trial," Jack puts in awkwardly.

"Tell him not to," Will says dully. "I don't care about that."

Jack drops that issue, and after another few awkward moments crawl by, Chilton steps forward and suggests, "Perhaps it's best you two come talk in my office..."

Nodding, Jack follows Chilton, but Beverly rests a hand on Will's shoulder. "I'll be by to check on you, okay? I'm sorry."

Will doesn't answer, so she steps away to follow Jack. They're a few steps from the door when Will rasps out, "Jack." The agent turns, and Will informs him in that same flat, frighteningly empty voice, "Hannibal killed her. She was looking into his sessions with me, to prepare her testimony. She must have started questioning him and found something. But he can't pin it on me anymore, so he made it look like the Chesapeake Ripper since that's the case you were working. Makes it seem like there's motive. But he killed her."

"Will." Jack gives him a sad, sympathetic look. "Dr. Lecter's been extremely upset by what happened to Alana. He had nothing to do with it."

Will's expression doesn't change. He turns his head away, staring at the ceiling, and after a moment Jack and Beverly follow Dr. Chilton out.

~(W*A)~

That night he lays on his cot and wishes he could stop breathing.

It feels like every inch of his insides is lined with shards of broken glass, rendering every movement, every heartbeat, every breath agonizingly painful.

Alana is gone. He can't comprehend that. She is no longer out there somewhere, fighting for him, taking care of his dogs, existing. He'll never hear the click of her heels down the corridor, will never cover her hand with his on the bars of his cell. At the trial she will not be there, will not be the one championing for him on the stand. And even if he gets out of here, she will not be waiting.

That single kiss so many months ago will be the only kiss they ever have.

Alana is gone, and it's like being told he has to live without light.

"Hi, Will."

Her voice slices through to his chest, and for a moment hope rounds in his throat like a sob. But Will swallows it; those photographs of her body, her crime scene, are burned into the back of his eyelids, and as much as it guts him, he knows they are real.

He closes his eyes. _My name is Will Graham. I am in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Alana is dead. Hannibal killed her._

When he looks up she's standing by his cell, wearing that red dress he likes, head tilted the slightest bit the way she does, lips curved into a crooked, closemouthed smile.

Tears well up in his eyes, and the vision of her blurs but still doesn't disappear. He blinks until he can see her clearly, for one more second, and then determinedly faces the ceiling again.

She isn't here. It is after visiting hours. And Alana is dead.

But every time Will sneaks a look, she's there, smiling at him from the other side of the bars.

~(W*A)~

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have, because Will opens his eyes to find the tier lit again, and when he sits up, Alana is gone and Beverly is there instead.

"I wanted to see how you are."

It's such a stupid question. He doesn't bother answering.

"...and to see if there was anything else you wanted to know."

There is nothing she can tell him that will make him understand this. Will looks away from Beverly, a dozen spiteful questions cycling through his mind. _How was the funeral no one told me about? Did you get to see her one more time? Did you get to say goodbye? Did you ever once feel guilty that I had no idea what was happening?_

"Oh, be nice, it's not her fault." Will jerks his head up to see Alana walking up behind Beverly, shooting him an admonishing look. "And she's taking care of the dogs. That's not a small favor, Will. I should know."

He drives his fists against his eyes, and when he opens them up again, Alana's gone.

"I cared about her, too, Will," Beverly says softly. Her eyes are sunken and exhausted, but all Will can think is that she's already put her feelings into the past tense. She doesn't understand.

He doesn't say a word the whole visit, and after awhile of this Beverly gives up and goes.

~(W*A)~

Talking is the first to go. After that, Will stops eating.

Chilton thinks it's some sort of grief stricken attempt at starvation, and because Will no longer speaks during their sessions, he doesn't correct him.

He doesn't explain that the first time they'd shoved a plate of food at him, Will had thought of her organs - removed pre-mortem, probably stored by Hannibal and cooked into some elegant feast, most likely served to Jack - and his stomach had clamped up.

After two days of this - and a disastrous attempt at force feeding - they start strapping Will to a chair and administering nutrients intravenously, twice a day. Chilton seems to think the mere gesture - the fact that they won't allow him to wither away - will be the end of it, but of course Will appreciates the change.

Sometimes he puts up a struggle, just so they'll sedate him.

~(W*A)~

His lawyer, Derek Rhodes, comes to have a talk with him.

"Everything you do in here is a matter of record. It all impacts your case, and I've gotta be honest, Will, you aren't doing yourself any favors. The encephalitis has been treated, so _now_ is the time you need to appear cooperative and sane. Being on some useless hunger strike and refusing to speak during sessions isn't helping."

"He's right," Alana says. She's several feet behind Derek, leaning against the wall, looking almost bored. "The not eating thing is especially futile. What, you think I'm mixed into those pathetic peanut butter sandwiches they bring you?"

Derek sighs impatiently. "And, frankly, Will, losing Dr. Bloom was enough of a set back. We'd based our entire case around her testimony, and it may be challenging to find another psychiatrist with the same convictions about you."

God, Will hates him.

~(W*A)~

That night, five days after Beverly and Jack told him, Alana is leaning against the bars of his cell again. Will sits up in his bed, ramrod straight, staring at her without blinking for a long, still moment. Then he curls on his side, burying his face in the pillow and closing his eyes.

Ten minutes later, when Will glances up again, Alana's still standing on the other side of the bars, a serene smile on her face, waiting with all the patience of a saint.

"I know you aren't there." His voice is hoarse and serrated from days without use. "I know you aren't real."

Saying the words out loud does nothing to banish the image in front of him. There is no encephalitis to blame, now, and Will doesn't know what kind of crazy this is, but he's not sure he really cares. Sanity isn't such a bad sacrifice, if it means he gets to keep her.

"Okay," Alana shrugs, not denying it.

"So what, then?" He sits up to look at her, eyes pleading. "What is this?"

"If I'm not real, how could I possibly know?" She asks, lifting an eyebrow. "If I'm in your head, then I don't have any information that you don't."

Will gets to his feet, shuffling slowly toward the edge of his cell. She's got one hand wrapped around one of the bars; gingerly, he covers it with his own. Her skin is warm and soft and familiar. Will slides his thumb over, pressing against her wrist, feeling the reassuring thump of her pulse.

"If you're just in my head," he whispers. "Why can't you come into the cell?"

"I don't know," Alana muses thoughtfully. "Maybe you still want it to seem real, somehow."

He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and there's no instinct telling him to look away. "Are you going to stay with me?"

Alana lifts a hand and tangles it in his hair. "I don't know. You tell me."

~(W*A)~

Beverly comes to visit again, giving Will the same lecture his lawyer did, except there's genuine distress in the pleading tone she uses to state her case.

"God, Will, I know this is hard. I know it's _impossible_. But believe me, you don't want to know what's coming. Chilton's talking about attempting electro-shock."

"Fine. Let him."

Beverly tightens her jaw, frustrated. "You can't let this destroy you, Will. You can't just give up. Alana wouldn't want that."

"I hate when people say that," Will mutters bitterly. "You shouldn't get to use her as a trump card."

"She is right, though," Alana points out from her position, two feet to Beverly's left. "I _wouldn't_ want  
you to just give up."

" - completely true and you know it," Beverly is saying heatedly. She keeps talking, trying to make him understand the impact on his case, but it's hard to focus with Alana right there, talking.

"Poor Bev," she says, leaning against Will's cell and looking fondly at her friend. "Must've been a pretty rough on her, you know? Thinking it's just like any day on the job, totally normal, and then realizing it was me?" Alana sighs, a little wistful. "She was a good friend. That was the only good thing to come out of you getting arrested." She looks back at Will. "Tell her I said hi?"

With effort, he keeps his eyes away from Alana, trying to at least half concentrate on what Beverly's saying.

"I'm serious, Will, tell her."

He lowers his eyes to the ground.

"Oh, but you can't, can you?"

He physically clamps his lips over a reply.

"Because then they'll know you're going crazy."

Beverly's done talking, seemingly waiting for a reply, but Will doesn't look up.

"Which is something you should probably _want_ to take care of."

Bev says his name.

"But you don't want to fix it, do you?" Alana's voice is tinged with sympathy. "Cause then you're afraid I'll really be gone."

Will's throat narrows, breath catching in his lungs.

"Like this."

Will jerks his head up. Beverly is outside the cell, alone now, staring at him in concern.

~(W*A)~

Alana isn't there all the time.

Sometimes he'll wake up to see her standing there, sometimes not. Sometimes she's with him most of the day, sometimes she only appears briefly at night.

Every stretch without her terrifies Will, even though it should probably be a relief. He's worried that one day he'll blink her away and she won't come back.

One night Will jolts awake from a nightmare to find his face soaked with tears, his chest jerking with harsh, stinging sobs, memories of a nightmare involving her already slipping between his fingers into some subconscious haze.

"This is a little dramatic, don't you think?" Alana's whisper sweeps over him, and Will looks up to find her in the usual spot, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

"Dramatic?" Will whispers back, suddenly and irrationally angry. "You're _dead_, Alana."

"Yes. Technically. But you haven't even had a chance to miss me yet." She pauses, thinking. "In fact, this is maybe even better for you."

"How is this better?," hisses bitterly.

"Because this is a version of me that doesn't abide by visiting hours. I'm here whenever you need." She grins, but it quickly fades. "I'm also a version who believes you about Hannibal." She shrugs. "See? No downside."

Will closes his eyes. There's a leftover ache in his throat and pressure behind his eyes, like he's seconds away from crying. "But I still know you're gone. That this isn't really you." He looks up at her, eyes wet. "I feel like I can't _breathe_, Alana. It's like I'm...lying at the edge of the shore, and every time I try to take a breath a wave washes over me and pulls me a little further in and I just...I want to drown already." He draws a long, shuttered breath. "That day they told me, those photos Jack showed me...that _happened_. _That_ is what's real. And I don't...I don't know how to survive it, Alana. I don't."

She watches him, eyes wide and sympathetic. After a moment, she sits down, right up against the cell, and extends her hand through, reaching toward him. "Come here..."

He does. Will sits across from her, dropping his forehead low against the bars while Alana gently strokes his hair. "I'm sorry," she tells him softly. "You know I loved you, right?"

"Yes," he whispers.

"And I know you loved me."

"_Love_," Will corrects, the word soaked with tears. He lifts his head to look at her. "You're the one who's gone. I'm still here. I still love you."

She crooks out a sad smile. "I'm sorry about that, too."

~(W*A)~

"I brought you something."

Will barely reacts. "Is it the forensics report?"

Beverly narrows her eyes. "No. I told you; you don't need to see that." She snakes her arm through the bars, fist clenched around something.

Will cups his hand below hers, waiting, and Beverly uncurls her fingers and lets something small and cool and silver drop into his palm.

It's Alana's starfish necklace, the one she'd worn nearly every day, and immediately Will's insides constrict. He winds his fingers through the thin, silver chain, letting the charm dangle, staring at it like it's something impossibly precious.

"How...?"

"Her brothers came down last weekend to pack up the house. Jack and I helped. I took a few boxes of things they didn't want, put them aside for you to go through, um...later." She stumbles over the word, obviously not certain about his ability to do so. "But I thought I'd bring you this now."

Will continues to stare down at the necklace, and he doesn't even realize he's crying until a tear drips onto the charm.

He lifts his head to look at Beverly and gives her a clumsy, but genuine, smile. "Thank you."

That night he shows Alana, and he wonders if his vision of her was always missing the necklace and he just hadn't noticed.

"Why'd you wear it so much anyway?"

She smiles. "Our family went to the beach every summer when I was growing up. My brothers were a lot older and they always sort of grumbled about it, but I loved those trips. I was obsessed with the ocean. We had this bowl of seashells in one of the bathrooms at home, and there was this dried up starfish that was my favorite. I didn't know they were actually _living_ _things_...I thought it was just another shell. And then the summer I was seven I found a live one in a tidepool, and I went running over to my parents, freaking out because it was moving. It became this big joke with the whole family, and on my tenth birthday my mom got me this necklace."

Will smiles, just loving the sound of her voice, covering him like a soft, familiar blanket. "See?" he says after a moment. "That's a story I didn't know."

"Yeah," she replies easily. "And that's why it's probably not even true." Alana laughs then, sweetly, "It's a little cheesy, Will. And it still doesn't explain why I wear the thing every day of my adult life."

"I guess not," he admits. It's hard to see her in the dark of the tier, so he closes his eyes, content to listen. "What else could it be?"

"Maybe a gift from an ex-boyfriend?" There's a teasing note in her voice, but he still scowls up at the ceiling.

"No. Something else."

"You just want me to keep talking."

"I know. Would you?"

"Of course," she says warmly, and he falls asleep to the sound of Alana spinning scenarios about the piece of jewelry clenched tight in Will's hand.

~(W*A)~

"I'm going to kill him, you know."

Alana barely looks over at him, unimpressed. "Just you?"

"Yes. I should have killed him in Minnesota. Shouldn't have kept talking. You would have just thought it was encephalitis, like all the others."

"But then you'd never have the chance of proving what he's done. Or what you haven't done," she argues.

"I don't care. If I'd done it then, he never would have gotten the chance to kill you."

Alana gives him a sympathetic look, but then her expression turns practical. "Still. You aren't going to kill him."

"I am."

She arches an eyebrow, skeptical. "From in here?"

Will shakes his head. "When they take me to court for the trial. I'll escape." He pauses. "I've done it before."

"Will," she looks at him sharply. "Don't be an idiot. Under no circumstances are you going to escape custody."

"I am," he insists stubbornly. "Just long enough to do what I should've done before. I'm going to kill him for what he did to you."

"Oh, no. Don't put your attempt at ruining your life on me," Alana retorts, annoyed. "If you kill him, you will, without question, spend the rest of your life in jail. Is that what you want?"

"No." They're sitting face to face on either edge of the cell, bars between them, and Will's playing with Alana's hand in both of his. He looks down at it, unable to face her as he mumbles, "Maybe I'll let him kill me, too."

In a flash, she rips her hand from his grasp and reaches up, slamming her palm against his cheek. Somehow, it hurts. "_Fuck_ you, Will," Alana grits out, voice vibrating with fury.

She pushes back from the bars and scrambles to her feet, towering over him. "I've kept my mouth shut about you refusing to eat or speak to your lawyer or therapists. I don't even point out the obvious problem that comes from you _talking_ to me. But this is too far. You want to completely destroy yourself, after I spent so much time fighting for you? _Fine_. But you don't get to delude yourself that I would have been alright with it."

With that she stalks off, out of his sight, and Will can feel his ribcage closing around his lungs. "Alana, wait..." Panic lines the back of his throat, sharp and metallic. "Alana! _ALANA_!"

Will doesn't care that everyone can hear him yelling for someone who doesn't exist anymore. He doesn't care that he's finally as crazy as they all say. He only knows he's scared to death that this may be the moment he loses this last piece of her.

~(W*A)~

Over twenty-four hours pass, and Will's sitting in the corner of the cell, his knees drawn up, winding the necklace around his fingers and thinking her name in a constant, desperate loop, like a prayer to summon her.

His eyelids feel like they weigh ten pounds, but he's too anxious to fall asleep, to let two nights pass without her.

Still, he's close to drifting off when he hears it, "Hey."

Disoriented, Will opens his eyes and squints through the darkness, barely making out her dim outline on the edge of the cell. "Alana? Is this...is it real?"

She half smiles. "Compared to what?"

Will moves closer to the bars to see her better. "I thought you were gone," he says softly, voice snagging.

"Just making a point," she tells him gently. "Did it work?"

"Dunno," he says honestly, leaning against the bars and looking at her eyes, glowing in the darkness. "I thought I hated him before, Alana but...God, I can't stand it. I want him dead, and I want to be the one to do it. I know that makes me...it makes me a monster, but I do."

"You are not a monster," she tells him firmly. "You're going to beat him, Will. But you have to do it the smart way. It's only a victory if you don't go down with him."

"I'm already down," he says softly. "I lost you." All the muscles in his face tighten, and Will corrects himself, "No. He _took_ you."

She reaches out and touches his cheek. "Then prove it."

Will sighs, frustrated. "The timing is horrible, though...the Chesapeake Ripper starting a cycle again, you working the case. It gave him the perfect cover, and their MO's are close enough that he still got to..." Will clamps his lips together, stomach rolling at the idea of what Hannibal does with his victim's organs. He grits his teeth. "He got lucky."

Alana lifts his chin so he has to look her in the eye. Her voice is heavy with significance, "Did he?"

~(W*A)~

"I need you to do something for me."

Beverly gives him a wary look. "I told you, I'm not giving you the file on her."

"Not that one," he clarifies. "But I want the files on the other Chesapeake Ripper murders."

She frowns. "Will, I really shouldn't..."

"_Please_, Beverly. I can't...I can't handle this much longer. I have to _do_ something." He draws a breath. "I worked the case before. It's nothing I haven't seen.

She sighs, an acquiescence. "I can't promise anything. I'd have to sneak them past Chilton..."

"He'll never know," Will assures her quickly. "And neither will Jack. I swear, Beverly."

She meets his eyes, and for a second Beverly forgets where they are, forgets Will's current situation and the uncertainty of his fate. All she sees is a deep well of loss, and the urgent, needy desire for anything that might fill it. "I'll do the best I can, okay?"

~(W*A)~

"So now you just have to find a connection between the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal's other murders?"

"In theory," Will mutters in reply. After a moment, he lifts his gaze from the folder in his lap to look at Alana. "You really think it's him?"

"Do _you_?"

Slowly, Will nods. "Yes. And I should have seen it before." He shakes his head, annoyed at himself. "They always knew the Ripper was a surgeon. And there was no evidence of what he actually did with his surgical trophies. Cannibalism...it makes sense. Look at the kills he did as Hobbs' copycat...took organs while she was still alive. Brutalization of the body, humiliation of the victim, it all - " Will stops talking abruptly, hearing his own words a few seconds too late.

Will's face twists, and he reels back on his heels, bending over, fists braced on the ground, and retching. His empty stomach contracts and expands in rapid succession, but there's nothing to throw up.

"Will?" Alana's voice slides over him, and he closes his eyes, swallowing until his gag reflex is under control.

He looks over his shoulder at her, eyes watering, face slick with sweat. "You were alive," Will chokes out hoarsely. "He kept you alive while he...ripped you apart."

It's not enough. It will never be enough. Electric chair, lethal injection, Will's own bare hands...nothing will make up for this.

It strikes Will all over again that he has no idea how to live with this knowledge for the rest of his life. His grief for Alana, the knowledge that he could not save her, will be with him forever, sewn to his skin. Inescapable.

Alana, though, is expressionless. She nods toward the stack of files. "Better keep going," she prompts. "This isn't a bad start, but it's nothing close to concrete evidence. The state you're in right now, they'll think it's paranoia. You have to have something pretty compelling to show Beverly."

"Beverly?"

"Sure. She has access to all the physical evidence from these cases." Alana gives him a significant look. "Who knows? Maybe she can find some sort of admissible evidence.."

~(W*A)~

Will can't sleep that night, just lays awake over his thin, stiff sheets, staring at nothing. There's a fist lodged in the back of his throat, aching, and every once in awhile he unexpectedly blinks and feels the slow trail of a tear roll from the corner of one eye down his temple.

"You should feel good." Alana says softly. Will glances over without lifting his head, just reassuring himself she's there, watching him as usual. "You're the closest you've been."

"I know." His voice is very small. "So why don't I feel like it matters?"

She doesn't answer. A minute crawls by with nothing but silence, and Will's about to call her name when suddenly he feels his mattress sink under a weight.

He opens his eyes and she's sitting there, on the foot of his bed.

"Alana..." he breathes out, eyes widening a fraction. Will slides over to make room, and she stretches out beside him, but lifts herself up on an elbow so she's still looking down at him, her free hand weaving gently through his curls.

"Hold on..." He reaches for his left wrist; the starfish necklace is wrapped around it, a double loop that cuts into his skin in order to make the clasp hook, but that's where it resides when he isn't worrying it obsessively between his fingers.

Now, he reaches up and delicately hooks the necklace around her, back in its proper place.

Alana touches the charm and smiles. "Thanks." She cups his cheek with one hand, thumb gently tracing the line of his cheekbone. "Now tell me what's wrong," she whispers, the words lacking all edges. Will nearly buckles under the overwhelming tenderness of her voice, her touch. He feels tears slipping down his cheeks.

"I always th-thought..." Will swallows hard several times, but his voice still comes out thick and throbbing with pain. "I thought one day when I...when I was able to prove the truth about him...I thought you and I would finally have a chance. I thought...I thought we could finally be in love."

Her lips fall against his forehead. "We _were_ in love."

"Yes, but I thought...it wouldn't hurt anymore," he amends in a fractured voice. "I thought we would finally be able to be happy."

"I know." Alana wraps her arms around him, cradling him, and Will presses his face against her collarbone, breathing in the scent of her. He rounds his mouth against her skin, hot and damp, murmuring her name as both a prayer and a curse before his voice collapses into fragments and he starts to cry, burrowing even closer, like he can fuse them together and make it so she can't go away.

Will cries himself to sleep in Alana's arms, and when he wakes up he's alone again, the starfish necklace still wrapped tightly around his wrist.

~(W*A)~

"Alana?"

Her name is a quiet, fragile whisper, the irrational efforts of a desperate man.

It's been four days, and he hasn't seen her, but Will can't help hoping. He will sit in his cell, unfocusing his eyes, as though he can catch her out by some glint of movement in his peripheral vision. His fist is permanently clenched around her necklace, like it could summon her at any moment.

"_Alana_," Will voice bends under the weight of her name. His eyes are wild, primal; he's afraid to blink and miss her. "_ALANA_."

He covers his face with his hands; he'll settle for just her voice. He drops his own to a whisper, "Alana please. Please come back. I'm not ready yet, I can't do this yet, I'm not finished. We're not finished. I need you, Alana, please."

The only answer is silence.

~(W*A)~

"Okay, what was so important?" Beverly asks, her expression cautious but not unkind as she approaches Will's cell.

"I wanted to give you back the files...and talk to you about some stuff I noticed in them." Will places a hand almost reverently on the stack of folders that have provided his answers. But that will wait, because once he gets into the Ripper/Hannibal correlation, it will be hard to get Beverly to focus on anything else. "But first, I have a favor."

"Alright. Go ahead."

"I know you said Alana's buried in her family plot in Massachusetts, but...if you're ever going there for a case could you maybe..." His eyes dart away, embarrassed. "There's a field behind my house. It's mostly dead grass, but...there are a few patches of wildflowers. Could you...take some there? For her..." Even now, the word sticks in his throat, scraping and wounding on its way out. "Her grave."

Beverly's whole face softens. "Of course."

"Okay. Thank you."

For a long moment, they're quiet, and when Beverly glances at Will, his head his bowed against the bars, a few stray tears running down his face.

"Oh, Will..." She reaches through and braces both his shoulders, unsure of what, exactly, level of comfort he would accept. "She really, really loved you. You know that, right?" Will nods a little, a crooked, messy sound his only reply, and Beverly adds, "And I know you loved her..."

"_Love_."

"What?"

Will sits up, pulling himself together and swiping his sleeve quickly under his eyes, a heartrending gesture that makes Beverly think of a little boy. "I love her. Present tense. That doesn't change."

Beverly's eyes drift to his wrist, catching the glint of silver wrapped there. "No," she acknowledges. "I guess it doesn't."


End file.
